


To Be Free For A Night

by orphan_account



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Crossdressing, Established Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hastings' sisters come to London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Free For A Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cicerothewriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/gifts).



> This was written especially for another Poirot writer's birthday. Happy birthday, Cicero! I hope you like it. :)
> 
> Gladys belongs to Cicerothewriter. She is not mine.

It was early one morning, just as I was relaxing on the settee after breakfast, when I received a letter from both of my sisters. This in itself was odd enough –neither Gladys nor Greta, my sisters, got on particularly well, and they certainly didn't speak to me unless it was necessary. I opened the letter, read it, then summarized it out loud to Poirot, who was at his desk, sorting his own correspondence.

"Seems my sisters have descended upon London." I told him, folding up the letter and throwing it onto the table. "They want me to take them to lunch tomorrow, and then accompany them to a party in... Cuthbert Hall? Do you know where that is, Poirot?"

"It is a little down the road," Poirot replied. "Near your garage. Will you accompany them?"

"Is it? I've never noticed it. I shall probably have to accompany them." I sighed deeply, before reaching for a pen and a piece of paper to pen my reply. Poirot looked at me, concerned.

"You do not get on with your sisters?"

"Not really. We hardly speak, save for the odd Christmas card. Last time we met, Gladys – that's the eldest – tried to set me up with a friend of hers. Went disastrously wrong – turns out I wasn't interested, and Greta – my youngest sister – had neglected to tell her that the girl was from the convent." Poirot winced in sympathy, before turning back to his post. I carefully wrote out a perfunctory reply to the two sisters, before folding it into an envelope and stamping it.

"I'll be back soon, Poirot – just need to post a letter." I called as I left the flat. I leapt down the stairs and out to the post office. Once the errand had been set, I raced back up to the flat.

As I re-entered the lounge, I could see something had affected my dear husband. He was frowning at a letter in his hand, looking quite bemused about something. I went to stand at his shoulder.

"Hastings, where was this party your sisters wished you to go to?" He asked as I lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Cuthbert Hall. Why?" He handed me the letter in his hand. I read it through, and saw exactly what was so entertaining.

"You've been invited to the same party as I have!"

"But I won't be able to accompany you! I've said I'd go with my sisters." Poirot looked at my dejected countenance, and took the hand that was on his shoulder into his palm. He squeezed it gently, and I smiled a little at the gesture.

"That is true." Poirot said, looking up at me. "But you will come and find Poirot, yes?"

I pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Of course I will. Why wouldn't I?"

* * *

Lunch with my sisters the next day did not start well. Gladys seemed to find it most horrifying that I was nearing forty, and still not yet married. She nagged at me for the entire time we were waiting for our food, and was only silent when food arrived on the table. Greta was quiet, but then again she always had been. She was more interested in books than boys – something else Gladys found deeply unsettling.

"Really, Greta," she was saying as a waiter took away our plates. "It's time you took your nose out of those books and get into the real world. You're not young forever, you know-"

"Gladys, in my experience, fictional men are far more satisfactory than men in the flesh." Greta replied tiredly, as if this wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation.

"Well, how would you know, Greta? You haven't had a man to compare your fictional men to."

"I've seen the ones you have been with, and that's comparison enough."

"That is not a good comparison, Greta. There was a reason I left them. Although you did rather like Kenneth."

"I _despised_ Kenneth. He couldn't hold up one end of a conversation."

"Well, neither can _your_ fictional characters!"

"How would you know? It's not as if you _read_ anything of value."

"I have been reading a book, _actually_." At this, I had to stop and make sure I hadn't been hearing things. Gladys declaring she'd read a book was like Poirot not keeping his desk orderly.

"Reading a _book_ , Gladys?" I asked, astounded that she even knew what a book was. "I didn't think you'd be one for _books_."

"Very funny, Arthur." Gladys said wryly, taking a sip of her tea. "But yes, I have found a rather lovely book which I am rather enjoying – written by one Jane Austen."

"Oh, I've read her books!" Greta exclaimed. She had always liked talking about books. "Is it _Sense and Sensibility_ that you're reading? Because I read that and I found it-"

" _Sense and Sensibility_ is one of the worst books I've read in my admittedly small reading repertoire." Gladys answered flatly. Greta' mouth shut with an audible snap.

"Oh."

"Indeed. I was actually quite put off by her writing until a friend of mine _insisted_ that I read _Pride and Prejudice_ , and I found I rather liked this one-"

" _Pride and Prejudice_?" Greta interrupted. "Isn't that the one with that ghastly man, Mr Darty or something?"

"Mr _Darcy_ , as you very well know, Greta. And he isn't _ghastly_ at all – he's the most wondrous character-"

"Wondrous if 'arrogant and conceited' is your type, maybe."

"Why, he is neither arrogant or conceited!" Gladys turned to me. "Arthur, tell her Mr Darcy is a wonderful character!"

"Well, I haven't read the book, Gladys. I can't exactly comment." I said as diplomatically as I could. I had no desire to take sides in a battle between my sisters – it never ended well.

"See?" Greta cried triumphantly. "It's so poor Arthur doesn't even want to read it."

"It is not poor!" Gladys argued heatedly. "It is perfectly good!"

"It's unrealistic!"

"It is not – some parts are things we ourselves have done as siblings! Look-" From her bag, Gladys withdrew a hard-back book. She rifled through it, looking quite frantic, before finding what she was looking for and pushing the open book towards us. I leant in to read the passage she was now pointing at.

" _We had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel Foster's. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are such friends!); and so she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We dressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes, on purpose to pass for a lady, - only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it but Col. and Mrs. Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked!_ _"_

Greta was pensive as she finished the passage. "You're quite right, Gladys," she said. "Perhaps it isn't so unrealistic after all. Do you remember when we used to dress you up, Arthur?"

"I do."

"Wasn't it such fun?" Gladys exchanged smiles with Greta, the previous argument forgotten. "I rather liked it when he had to be that maid we invented – what was she called? Mrs Nessie? Mrs Nesbit?"

"I can't remember, honestly. But he looked so _pretty_ in Mother's lacy apron!"

I blushed in embarrassment as the two girls laughed hysterically. Being the only son in a family of daughters, it was only expected that I would be outnumbered and outvoted in many of the games we played as siblings. Often, my suggestions of tag or hide and seek were thrown out the window in favour of pretend games, almost all of which lacked a male role. Quite often, I would be cast as the leftover role, sometimes a maid, or a spare princess.

I remember the maid role well – it was often a pretend game we played during lunch, with both Greta and Gladys pretending to be snobbish gentry, and me as the unfortunate maid who had to serve them both. The girls got me to wear a monstrosity of an apron that Mother had received as a wedding gift – one that only I had ever used. The game was a fun way of getting me to bring lunch to the table, and the two girls kept the whole table amused for hours with their antics whilst eating, exaggerating everything they did, insisting it was "the gentleman's way to eat" .

"Hey… I have an idea!" Greta suddenly exclaimed, snapping me out of my reverie.

"What?" Gladys asked. Greta looked at the book, then back at Gladys, as if trying to convey a message. I didn't understand, but Gladys seemed to, her mouth forming a perfect 'o' as it fell open.

"Oh. _Oh_. You mean- ?"

"Yes! Wouldn't it be _good_?"

"But if we were caught-"

"If we _weren't_ caught-"

"Oh, it's so _audacious_!"

"What's going on?" I asked, looking between them, completely flummoxed as to what they were talking about. Gladys and Greta looked at the book again, then looked up at me. It took me a while again to understand.

"Arthur, would you-"

"No. _No_. Absolutely not." Their faces comically fell in sync.

"But Arthur, _please_ -"

"No. There is _no_ way you are dressing me up like the ladies did to Chamberlayne in your book!"

"Why not?"

"Well, I-" I stammered a little, and failed to come up with any counter argument. Huffing, I crossed my arms in annoyance.

"There is _no way_." I told them sternly. "And that is _final_."

* * *

"I cannot believe we are doing this."

I was now sat in the hotel room that Gladys and Greta had rented for the weekend. Gladys was carefully painting my nails. Greta was styling my hair. Somehow, they had convinced me that passing as a lady was not all that hard, and that dressing me up would be fun. They'd also convinced me, after much argument, that it would be great fun to go to the ball dressed as such.

What I would wear was another source of argument. Greta was insistent that I dress conservatively as not to arouse suspicion, but Gladys wanted me to go full out and draw attention. Gladys eventually got her way – she tended to, being the eldest – and it was a dark red number that I wore, with a cinched waist and a full length skirt. Somehow the girls had gotten me into a corset too – a most uncomfortable thing that I couldn't wait to remove after the night was over.

I had to admit, they had done rather a splendid job. If I had seen my reflection as a person on the street, even I would've been fooled. I looked almost exactly like a woman of this generation, albeit taller and broader. I wondered what Poirot would think of me in this get up – in fact, I wondered whether he would recognize me at all.

"We _are_ doing this, Arthur. Now hold your hand still, or I'll get this gloss over your hand." Gladys said, giving my hand a sharp slap as I went to move it again. I tended to have restless hands when I was nervous, much to the annoyance of Gladys, who's work on my fingers needed me to stay perfectly still.

"I don't see _why_ you must use that stuff on my fingernails. It's not as if this make-up wasn't enough-"

"It's _fashionable_. It's been in all the women's magazines – not that you read those. Lady Roosevelt – you know, that woman from the Americas – wears it all the time."

I sighed, and fell silent. There was no point arguing with them.

"There!" Greta cried after five minutes. "We're done, I think. How are the nails, Gladys?"

"Just dried. Are we ready to leave?"

"Yes. Let us get our bags – Arthur, your shoes are by the door." I slipped into the pair of boots by the door. Finding a pair of ladies shoes in my size had been nigh on impossible, so the girls had grudgingly allowed me to wear a pair of my own which looked generally unisex – which happened to be an old pair of riding boots, polished up to evening standard. They would be hidden underneath the dress anyway, so it didn't really matter.

We left the flat, and arrived at Cuthbert Hall at around half past eight. The party was already in full swing when we arrived, so my arrival turned a great few many heads. I blushed at their attentions, embarrassed – I had a horror of doing anything that could be considered morally wrong by others. However, no-one in the room seemed to recognise me as male, and I had even had a few men come over and flirt for a little while. After a drink or two, I had started to relax and enjoy myself.

At around ten o' clock, I was well and truly tipsy. Greta, not being much of a party-goer, had left earlier, and the last I saw of Gladys was of her back as she wandered outside on the arm of some gentleman. That was over half an hour ago. I doubted she would be back. I was currently on my own, sat on one of the more private settees, sipping another brandy. I hadn't seen Poirot as of yet – I half-believed he hadn't turned up, perhaps missing my company too much to come here without me. However romantic that was, it was rather irritating seeing as I was on my own at the moment.

I scouted the room for him again, but yet again my search was in vain. I couldn't see him at all. I sighed, and took another sip of my brandy. I was on the verge of giving up and going home when I thought I heard the voice of a rather irritated Belgian from somewhere behind me. I turned, and saw no-one. But then I heard the voice again, and this time I was sure that Poirot was somewhere around here.

I kept looking until I was sure I'd injured my neck trying to see him. Still I hadn't glimpsed him – but his voice seemed to be getting closer as I looked around. It was only when he was right beside me that I finally noticed him.

"I couldn't help but notice, _mademoiselle,_ that you seemed to be looking for somebody." I started at his voice, before turning around to look at him properly. He was wearing one of the suits I liked best on him – a dark grey one, with an emerald cravat that made his eyes sparkle.

"I was," I replied, careful to mask my voice in a whisper. "I didn't think he was here."

Poirot started a little at my voice and gave me a look that I could not decipher, before sitting on the seat next to me. "I too was looking for a friend of mine. He may have left already." He paused a little, before adding: "I hope he has not."

From years of living with the man, I could tell from his body language that he was more distressed about me not being there than he let on. Inside, I felt bad that it was me who was causing this distress, and so I abandoned the hidden voice, and simply said: "Perhaps he shall appear in a form most unusual."

Poirot turned sharply towards me. I looked into his eyes, and smiled as they changed from confusion, to realisation, to shock.

"Hastings? Is that you?"

"Sure is, old thing." I said, grinning. His shocked visage remained as he looked me up and down, but he slowly smiled as he fully recognised me. I began to laugh, as did he, until we were both giggling like schoolgirls on the plush settee.

"Hastings, Hastings, _Hastings_ …" Poirot chuckled as we calmed ourselves. "Why are you dressed like this?"

"Greta and Gladys put me up to it." I replied, finishing off my brandy and putting it on a nearby table. "You know – my sisters?"

"Of course."

"They said it would be fun." I looked over at Poirot, and, suddenly feeling playful, leant in towards his ear. My next words were said in a low husky whisper. "And it _is_. Do you know why?"

"Why?" Poirot had grown a little tense as I got closer, fully aware of the danger I may be exposing us to, but I was too tipsy to care. No-one recognised me, anyway.

"Because, dressed like this, I can kiss you in front of everyone, _and no-one will blink an eyelid._ " My last words were punctuated with nibbles and kisses to Poirot's ear. The tension seemed to drain out of him, and when he turned to look into my eyes, it was with a lusty gaze that sent pleasant shivers through my body.

"What do you say?" I whispered, looking into his eyes and making it perfectly clear what I wanted. He looked back before, with a slight glance to the other occupants of the room (who had their backs turned, by some happenstance), leant forward and pressed his lips to mine.

Kissing Hercule Poirot in public was one of those things I didn't know I wanted until it was happening. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as we kissed, setting my nerves alight with pleasure and my heart racing. We broke apart when air forced us to do so, and I felt giddy at the glow of desire I saw in his eyes. We kissed again, our hands caressing our bodies in the most delightful way.

"Shall we go?" I asked as we stopped for breath again. He smiled at me and nodded. I returned his smile with a giddy grin of my own. I looped my arm in his, thrilled at the chance to do this without the fear of being arrested, and we strolled out of Cuthbert Hall.

Cuthbert Hall was only a ten minute walk from Whitehaven Mansions, but it took us nearly twenty this time. Elated by our rare freedom, we took our time walking back, sometimes pausing to kiss or cuddle, or caress a cheek or nibble an ear, and even once to have an impromptu slow dance in the street.

When we finally arrived back in the flat, the kisses and nibbles gave way to firmer pleasures. The dress and suit fell away as we tumbled onto the bed. There, we made love, our joy of having one night of freedom bleeding into the room around us. When I was finally tipped over the edge, the sensations were one of the most glorious I had ever experienced in my life, and I could see it had affected Poirot also, as he cried out my name in a voice bold and bright with passion.

The adrenaline hadn't worn off by the time we had calmed, so we spent an hour or so simply holding each other, lightly kissing and gently stroking each other's bodies. When sleep finally did claim us, it took us slowly, cocooned in the remnants of bliss.


End file.
